December 26, 2018

No Witnesses by Bill Abbott

The detective’s chalk outline
of the body is bound at five different
points by black-tallowed candles,

The bloodshed in the room was
significant. Professional cleaners
were en route to do what they
always do. The hotel management
was being reassured the room
would return to its generic glory
and the details would stay

The body on the stretcher was fully draped
in white. As the men carried it out, a hand
fell out and briefly drug the floor.
Where it touched, the carpet sizzled.
A few black feathers appeared down the hall
behind the body’s journey
to whatever hereafter it got. 

A girl on the way to the pool stopped,
picked up a feather, and put it in her hair.

Bill Abbott is the author of "Let Them Eat MoonPie," the history of poetry slam in the Southeast. He has been published in Ray's Road Review, Radius, The November 3rd Club, Flypaper Magazine, and The Sow's Ear. Mr. Abbott lives in Ohio and teaches creative writing at Central State University.

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